


Bring Me Back (to Life)

by ifdragonscouldtalk



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Tony Stark, Baby Peter Parker, Gen, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Peter Parker, On Hiatus, Parent Tony Stark, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Precious Peter Parker, Protective Tony Stark, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Tony Stark Has Trust Issues, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-04-04 12:54:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14020677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifdragonscouldtalk/pseuds/ifdragonscouldtalk
Summary: He sat up with Peter in his arms, feeling the sleepy trembles from the boy and pushing down his own fear, swallowing it like a bitter pill. He had to be strong, and protect Peter, no matter what. It was the least he could do, to prove one last time to the kid that his daddy loved him more than anything else. More than life.It wasn’t true, and he was scared, but even if he wanted to live, he’d give it up for Peter. He’d give up anything for Peter.He pretty much already had.----------------------------------This is NOT a deathfic. It's a rescue fic, actually! But I know what the summary sounds like, so I'm here to tell you there is no dying here! Tags subject to change.On Hold for a foreseeable future as I finish college and attempt to get my WIP load down; apologies for any disappointments.





	1. Chapter 1

Tony was ripped out of sleep, jerking Peter closer to his chest and startling the boy awake, making him whimper at the strength he was clutching with. “Daddy?” the small, too small, too quiet, voice asked him, trembling and scared. 

No boy should sound like that at four years old, and suddenly Tony felt like crying. 

Not that the feeling had ever really stopped. 

He could hear the sounds of gunfire and fighting, echoing too loud and at the same time too distant in the small room, darkness making everything more ominous as an alarm began to blare. The alarm wasn’t set up in their room -- it was a distant wailing, like the scream of a banshee. It signaled death. 

He sat up with Peter in his arms, feeling the sleepy trembles from the boy and pushing down his own fear, swallowing it like a bitter pill. He had to be strong, and protect Peter, no matter what. It was the least he could do, to prove one last time to the kid that his daddy loved him more than anything else. More than life. 

It wasn’t true, and he was scared, but even if he wanted to live, he’d give it up for Peter. He’d give up anything for Peter. 

He pretty much already had. 

Peter didn’t understand, but he knew his daddy was scared and there were loud noises. The boy wasn’t fond of loud noises, and Tony didn’t blame him in the slightest, pressing his lips to his baby’s hair as the kid whimpered and started to cry silently. 

No child of four should have to cry silently, and it broke Tony’s heart. 

He stood slowly, cradling Peter close to his chest, knowing he could hear the too-fast beating of his father’s heart, his bare feet silent on the cold floor as he slowly backed toward the corner of the room farthest from the door. It wasn’t a very big room, and he doubted it would matter much, but Peter’s shudders died slightly, so he did it anyway, rocking him slowly and pressing kisses to his head. 

Maybe it would be the last time he would kiss his baby boy. Maybe this was it. The gunfire was getting closer, and God knows he’s sinned. 

The dam he’d built so carefully over the years finally broke at that thought, and the tears came flooding out, fast and burning. 

“I love you,” he whispered into Peter’s hair, his voice too soft, and this wasn’t how he wanted to do it. He wished he could scream the words to the world, to show Peter how precious he was and how much he meant, but a whisper was all he had. “I love you, baby boy, Daddy loves you so much.” 

“I love you too, Daddy,” Peter sobbed back, face buried in his chest, and with a pang Tony realized his boy probably knew too much about what might happen next. 

The solid metal door slammed open and Tony sucked in a breath between his teeth, slipping to his knees and pressing Peter’s head to his chest with his free hand, wrapping himself around his boy as the lights in the room flooded on. The man was decked out in tac-gear, an automatic pressed to his shoulder, blue eyes set and mouth in a hard frown, and fuck but he was built like a brick house. A shudder ran down Tony’s spine, and he wished it was attraction. God, did he wish. 

“Please,” he croaked when he wasn’t immediately shot, “don’t do anything where Peter can see. He’s just a baby, he’s my baby, please don’t let him see. Please.” The man’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion as he slowly lowered the gun, his eyes scanning the small room. 

“You’re not here by choice.” 

It wasn’t a question, but Tony shook his head desperately anyway, more tears pouring down his face as his father screamed  _ ‘Run! Tony, take Peter and run!’ _ in his head, sobs escaping his chest unbidden, Peter’s own terrified cries rising as his father’s did, and Tony felt terrible for making his little boy feel like this. 

Before the man could say anything else a woman ran in the door, pressing and hand to his shoulder. Her hair reminded him of fire, and a friend he’d once had. “Please,” he whispered again as he met her eyes, cradling his sobbing boy against him. It was a small and trivial comfort, but all that he had to give. 

“Oh my God,” the woman breathed, the bruise on her cheek not stopping her. “You found him. Go tell the Captain, get him now.” The man gave him an incomprehensible look while nodding before he turned and left the same way he’d come, into the quietly dying screams and gunfire. Tony just watched, slowly rocking Peter to try and soothe his cries, not even realizing he was doing it. The woman stepped forward and he couldn’t help the way he tensed, trying to hide it, but she stopped, holding up her hands. “You’re... can you tell me your name?” 

“I’m-” Tony stopped. It’d been so long since anyone had said his name, had called him anything; he almost called himself Daddy, but he caught himself. “A-Anthony. Tony.” The woman let out a breath like she’d been punched in the gut and he felt himself pale, wondering how his name could have that reaction. “You... You were looking for me.” He felt himself start to shake again, his vision tunneling. 

“Tony. Tony!” He must’ve lost time, because the woman was suddenly right in front of him, her hands on his cheeks as Peter quietly snarled at her, shaking like a leaf. “Tony, we’re here to save you. We’ve found you, we’ve finally found you, okay. I promise, I’m from SHIELD.” 

“SHIELD?” His voice was small, his mind spinning. He had hoped, at first, but it was dashed as the months went on. 

“Yes, I swear. I’m Natasha, and I’m not going to let anyone hurt you, not you or Peter. Not  _ ever _ again.” There was a fire in her eyes and despite himself, Tony found himself believing her. 

He pressed his face to Peter’s hair and cried.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't read this chapter if you super hate cliff-hangers until the next one is out! Also, warning for panic attacks and flash backs, and suicidal thoughts which are not explicitly stated in as many words but are definitely there.

Tony could tell when another person entered the room, could feel it in the air, stiffening and going quiet, keeping his face buried in Peter’s now damp hair as the boy also quieted, feeling the tenseness of his father and the shift of air in the room. Natasha placed a hand on his shoulder, lightly, and he held back the flinch, very slowly shifting in front of her as he lifted his head, his face a wreck but his eyes flashing as he bared his teeth animalistically at the potential threat. Natasha saw his move in an instant and stood quickly, stepping back in front of him and drawing her gun on the man -- despite the fact that Tony could see he was military, decked out in the same tac-gear as the other man and built in the same way, with piercing eyes that made his throat clench up as he scrambled backwards to the wall, letting Natasha shield him and his precious child. Peter was sobbing silently again against his chest, tiny fists twisted up in his tattered shirt, white and bruised and too frail, and all Tony could do was try to  _ breathe _ as he stared into those shocked eyes. 

“Natasha,” the man said calmly, not reacting at all to the gun pointed at his head. “Buck said you sent him to get me, said you found him.” The red-head gave a short nod. 

“Sure did.” 

“Whatcha doin’ then?” 

“Promised to defend him. Wouldn’t let anyone hurt him or the kiddo,” she grunted, her posture not shifting even as the man’s relaxed slightly, his shoulders untensing, and Tony felt his air start to come easier as he realized she wouldn’t back down and he wouldn’t attack. “And you aren’t exactly non-threatening, Cap.” 

“Fair enough. He okay?”

“He look okay?” Tony flinched. 

He and Peter both looked like crap, him moreso. They were filthy and bruised and malnourished and overtired, in clothes that had seen better years and smelled like death with curls that hung limp and oily around their faces. His skin felt like it was perpetually coated in soot from the fires, grease from the machines, and Peter was stained with it as well where he held him most, black handprints that marred his skin. 

But he knew she meant more than that. 

“Fair enough,” the man repeated, looking them over with gentle eyes. “I’m Steve,” he finally addressed Tony, and stepped forward slightly. Natasha didn’t lower her gun, and Tony managed to keep from tensing. “I’ve been leading the task force to find you. We aren’t going to let anyone hurt you anymore.” 

“Until we get back stateside,” Tony whispered, his voice breaking. Peter’s wet face was pressed into his neck, and he buried his free hand into the matted curls, the other flexing in its confines. 

“What do you mean?” Steve asked quietly as Natasha’s eyes flashed. 

“Tony,” she said firmly over her shoulder, still refusing to lower her weapon, “we aren’t here to  _ arrest _ you. You’re a prisoner of war.” Tony blinked, paling. 

“We weren’t- We weren’t at war with Afghanistan when I was captured.” Natasha and Steve shared a glance. 

“But we were at war with HYDRA,” Steve said softly. Tony felt his head swimming, his breath coming fast again, Peter crying “Daddy!” against his chest in panic. 

“I’ve been making weapons for HYDRA?” he choked, his back slamming hard into the wall behind him and his head quickly following, the spinning getting worse, staring up at the swirling flickering fluorescent light in the tiny bedroom he’d been forced to call home for three years. “I killed people for HYDRA, I killed, HYDRA, I-” 

Sharp eyes and a gleeful grin flashed in front of him, sharp teeth, and the deep red glow of the forges, and Peter was  _ crying _ , Peter was  _ sobbing _ for him, and he launched to his feet, his hand reaching for the figure in front of that too bright, too hot, too familiar glow, weakened and blackened fingers wrapping around the throat, more slender than he expected, less resistance than he prepared for, all three of them tumbling to the ground as Tony rolled with the force of it, curling around Peter and sliding along the floor away from the men and the heat and the  _ noise _ , the  _ roaring _ , the  _ screaming _ that was overwhelming. He scrambled to his feet, heading for the open door, the door was  _ open _ , and this had to be a fever dream but he would take the chance, Jesus would he take it -- and he screamed shrilly as he crossed the threshold, collapsing to his knees and dropping Peter none-too-gently to the ground, scratching at the lock around the infernal contraption on his hand, the prison they made him build himself, the grave they made him dig. He slammed his hand into the ground, into the wall, trying to get the shocks to stop as his muscles began to spasm, his fingers twitching within the skeleton chains, tears streaming down his face, and he was  _ dead _ , he was so  _ dead _ and he had  _ killed _ Peter with him, with those men right behind him, and they had done it, they had tempted him and he had taken to the temptation like the sinner he was and Peter was going to pay for it again- 

He kicked and screamed as strong hands grabbed his shoulders and dragged him back, not noticing the shocks stop as he crossed back over the threshold to their dingy living space with nothing more than a bed and a bucket, and he would’ve thought he would be out of tears by this point, out of sound, out of breath, out of soul. He reached for Peter desperately, scrabbling at the floor, blinded by his own emotions. They were going to take his little boy this time, they had promised him as much when he had tried it last time -- and God, how long ago was that? How long was he going to let his little boy suffer with him here? 

He was never brave enough to off himself, and never let it be said he laid a malicious finger on his little boy’s head, but maybe it was time for that -- maybe it was time to let his precious child stop suffering. 

Maybe it was time he stopped trying to struggle back to the surface of the water, and let himself drown. 

So he stopped struggling, weak sobs wracking his weak frame, and let his eyes slide closed, the muscles in his right arm still twitching wildly. 

Peter was screaming in his ear, harsh shudders twitching his small body, hot breaths against his ear as he sobbed for his Daddy to come back and remember, and his hands came up automatically to comfort his baby, maybe for the last time, and Peter was telling him to remember what Pappy always said, and that the nice lady was here and that there had never been ladies here before which meant she had to be telling the truth, right, Daddy? Right? Daddy, I need you! Tony cried, and breathed in the smell of his boy, the smell of home, the only home he had anymore and the only one he might ever have again, and felt his heart beating too loud in his head. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yooooo it’s ya girl. this isn’t really where i was going to take the third chapter but people kept asking for BACKStoRy instead of WAITING PATIENTLY so here 
> 
> Warnings! For mention of rape, canon typical violence, and gore

He hadn’t seen his baby boy for three days. 

For all he knew, they weren’t feeding him, or giving him water, and he was still shaky on making it to the potty even though he’d been trying his hardest to help him, and he was still not good at talking and was more prone to screaming and pointing at what he needed than anything else, which he knew they wouldn’t like and-- 

And they had a gun to his head, as he stood sweating in front of the fires, feeling broken for the first time since he’d gotten here -- how long ago was it? A year? -- silent tears running down to his clenched jaw as he stared into the too-bright light of the forges. 

“Are you ready to comply?” The voice was coy and too sensual for this place, and it made a shiver run down his spine for all the wrong reasons. He nodded slowly, feeling the cool press of metal against the back of his head, and refused to close his eyes to imagine what would happen if his head split open, brains sizzling in the forges, leaving his little boy here alone. He stared into the fires until his eyes watered, and pretended the tears were from over-exposure, and not because he was broken. 

He was dragged to a work table by the back of his neck, wincing as fingers dug into his skin and knowing the gun was following close behind. 

“Make me a glove.” The voice was hard now, and Tony welcomed it. “Make me a glove that will lock a hand so it can’t move.” He slammed something down on the table and Tony flinched, looking down at the shock collar and feeling a small trickle of cold drip down his spine. “Put the mechanism of this into the lock. So that if you try to unlock it, or cross a certain threshold without it being deactivated, it will incapacitate you.” The man’s mouth was too close to his ear, breathing hot air on his skin, and he shuddered. “Go ahead, Stark. Build your own prison. You won’t see your boy until you do.” 

Two sleepless, draining days later, Tony stood still as the prison of his own creation was locked onto his hand, standing in the middle of his dingy room. He stood, unseeing, as he waited for his boy to be brought back to him, fearing the shape he would be in. Tears came to his eyes when the precious bundle was dragged through the door, scooping Peter up into his arms, fingers flexing desperately against his bonds. He refused to let the tears fall; he was done with crying. It was time to change something, to  _ do _ something. He had to trust that someone, somewhere, was looking for him still, after all these months. His boy was crying, and it broke his heart. 

He couldn’t help but wonder how everything had fallen apart just as they had clicked together.

* * *

 

His first week living on campus was also his last. 

He simply wasn’t ready to live like that, completely on his own, at 15, surrounded by older kids and patronized by the people who were supposed to be his peers. His dad respected that, and hired someone to commute him back and forth to school every day, and Tony was endlessly grateful. “Anything for you, kid,” his dad had said, and he had given a watery smile, the stress of the week catching up to him. 

His first party was also his last, at 16 and too young to understand the other kids, not really, even though they were only a few years apart. He didn’t remember much of it, except the overwhelming feeling of loneliness and the burn of drinks he didn’t really like sliding down his throat, and then, later, the burn of it as it came back up all over the kind older student’s shoes, and the burn of his face in embarrassment. He woke up in Rhodey’s bed, hungover and overwhelmed as Rhodey spoke on his phone to his father. He blinked up at the older genius as he smiled gently and leaned over to brush sweaty hair off his forehead, and tilted the phone away to whisper “I’ll get you some Advil.” 

His first job outside of Stark Industries was also his last. 17, and finally over the desperate need to provide that came from an overly-intelligent 14 year old that cursed the fact that they weren’t allowed to work, he found a job at a mechanic shop just off campus, fixing engines after class and laughing with the older men that worked there. He drove home in the evenings, and had dinner with his dad as they talked about their days, and after they would tinker in the workshop or he would do homework, and it was good. He stayed in touch with the garage after he quit for SI full time, but his love for tinkering with cars never faded. 

His first PA was also his last. “I don’t need a PA Dad, I don’t do enough for it!” he had argued at 18, even as he worked on the homework for his second doctorate while Howard had cooked dinner. 

“I know you don’t,” Howard had replied with a smile. “But I promised this girl a job, and I think you’ll get along with her.” 

Virginia was spitfire, gorgeous and strong, and she and Tony got along right off the bat. Tony laid it out straight, that he wouldn’t need her. “We’ll see about that, Mr. Stark,” she said with a smirk. A month later, he thanked his dad for the best thing that ever happened to him, more well rested than he had been in a few months, and happy as Pepper smirked over his shoulder, her neatly organized planner clutched in her arm. Howard smiled back, and winked as he said “She’s going places.” 

The first time he had sex was also his last. 19, and certainly drugged, sweaty and needy and dark. He had cried when he woke up, and the Maya had panicked and left. His father was angry, but not at him, and so was Pepper, who had found him on his bed, crying. Rhodey had threatened to break his vow to never hit a girl. 

A month later, as Howard had started the process to quietly press charges, they found out she was pregnant. He cried again, over the fact that he was going to have a baby, a child who was innocent and would need him. “We don’t have to keep it,” Howard told him. “She might not even want it.” 

“No!” he gasped, tears streaming down his face. “God, no! Dad, I’m- I’m going to have a baby.” Howard held him close. 

“Jesus Tones,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “You’re going to have a baby.” 

They fought for it. It wasn’t publicized. Maya didn’t put up more than a token argument, and they promised to recompense her for the trouble, but Tony wanted his little boy or girl more than anything. He would love it, he promised, near tears, and the judge ruled in their favor. They wouldn’t press any more charges about the rape, if only Maya carried the child to term and gave up her parental rights. She agreed, and on the steps outside the courthouse she broke down in tears. 

“I’m so sorry, Tony,” she sobbed. “I don’t know why I did it. I’m so sorry.” He didn’t have anything to say to her. 

Three months later, 20 years old, he cried in the hospital as he held his new baby boy, who was screaming for all the world to hear, unable to believe he had created something so beautiful and perfect as this small child. “You’re going to be a great father, Tony,” Maya had said weakly, sweaty and exhausted. He smiled at her, and kissed her hand. That was the last time he saw her. 

The first time he fought with his father after Peter was born was also the last. Peter was five months old, asleep in his room, and Tony was trying to control his voice. 

“God, Dad, I get it! But you, you don’t understand. When things happen, when things get out of control and our weapons are used to hurt people, that leaves  _ us _ accountable. It doesn’t matter if we didn’t pull the trigger, because we designed the system! I don’t want Peter to grow up like that, in a world where his family profits off the lives of others.  _ Mom _ wouldn’t want us to be in that world. You claim you’re a futurist, Dad, but you can’t see it. I want Peter to grow up in a world where his dad, his granddad, helped  _ save _ lives, helped make the world a better place. I don’t want us to be the merchants that profit off of people’s death. I know you’re getting a lot of pressure from all sides, all lot of pressure to shift production of SI into weapons because it’s profitable and will connect us with the government, but can’t you see it? A world where, one day, people can actually  _ talk _ instead of kill? Please, Dad. Please understand.” Howard stood for a moment before sagging.

“I do,” he sighed. “I do understand.” 

Tony grinned as, a month later, he stood in the wings while his father announced the end of SI’s weapon production, opening their medical and tactical gear research, severing some contracts with the government even while they forged new ones that would keep people safe, instead of killing them. 

“I believe in a world where people talk instead of fight. We’re not there yet, but I hope that the public takes this move for what it is -- a statement, and a step in the right direction.” Tony looked down at Peter as he gurgled happily, bouncing him and pressing a kiss to his cheek. 

“That’s your Pappi,” he whispered rocking side to side. “Look at your Pappi, he’s out there changing the world. Look, Peter.” 

“Changing the world, huh?” Howard said dryly, and Tony looked up with a smile. “Like this was my move.” He paused. “You’ve always been smarter than me,” he said softly, and pressed his palm to Tony’s cheek. Tony blinked at the soft touch, taking a step towards his dad so they could embrace. “You’re my greatest creation, Tony. The best thing that ever happened to me.” 

“Yeah,” Tony said, clearing his throat so he didn’t sound quite so choked up. “Peter’s mine.” 

Six months later, everything fell apart. He and his father were in the car, going out together to celebrate Peter’s first steps, and everything was good and happy. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. “Dad,” he said suddenly, “why are you going 60 in a 45?” Howard frowned, and pressed down on the brake. 

“Shit.” 

“Dad?” He was scared now, leaning over Peter in his carseat protectively, like that would do anything. 

“Tony, the brakes aren’t working. Just, protect Peter and hold on.” 

Everything else devolved into screams and flashes of light as they careened down the road, taking a turn too fast and skidding into the trees, the crunch of glass and screech of metal filling his ears as he screamed and held Peter, his ears ringing with the sound of his baby’s terrified cries and his father’s shouts. 

The car was steaming, and his head was pounding. He pushed back his hair and stared at the blood turning sticky on his hand before looking down to check on Peter. There was a small cut on his cheek, chubby arms waving desperately in the air, choking on cries, not understanding. He swiftly unbuckled him, cradling him to his chest, before looking to his groaning father. Howard was bloody, a black eye and a broken arm, and Tony’s heart jumped as he fumbled for his cell phone, dialing 911. 

“Dad, Dad please, stay with me here, I’m getting help now-” He fell silent as he followed Howard’s gaze into the forest, seeing the men streaming out of the trees, armed to the teeth. This was a set up. “Shit.” 

“Tony, run. Run! Tony, take Peter and run!” He didn’t want to leave, but he did, terror pushing him on as he shoved the door of the car open and took off, jostling Peter in his arms. He could hear the gunshots in the distance, tears streaming down his face, wondering if it was the last time he would see his father. A sob escaped him. He didn’t look back. 

They didn’t get very far. 

Tony’s first time escaping wasn’t his last. 

“I will never, ever stop trying to escape, stop trying to make your lives  _ hell _ ,” he snarled, clutching Peter tightly to his chest. The boy whimpered, to quiet -- he had learned quickly that silence was the best option here. This wasn’t the life Tony wanted for his baby. 

“Next time, we’re going to kill the boy. If he can’t control you, he’s useless.” 

He stopped trying to escape. 

Now he was here, slowly coming back to himself as he clutched his boy, 24 years old and too broken for it, rocking back and forth. He wasn’t sure if he was soothing himself or Peter. He wasn’t really sure who he was anymore. Just a Merchant of Death, and Peter’s father. That was it. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! So I know this is quite a bit shorter than my other chapters. It's actually only half a chapter. Unfortunately you might have to wait quite a bit (a couple months, probably!) before the next chapter! I've been having some health issues and my second year of college just started, and I have a couple projects more important to me. This is not abandoned, I have an endgame! It's just very, very slow. I apologize and understand if you prefer not to read any longer. Thanks!  
> ~Talon

He came back staring at Peter’s blurry face, taking in the dirt and the stress and the fear and the _strength_ , God, his little boy was so strong and he loved him for it, loved that he grew up with fire and iron in his heart.

Hated the reason why he grew up like that.

“Shit,” he whispered. “Shit, shit. I- I killed- I should’ve killed them. I should’ve blown everything sky high while I had the chance, _fuck_ , I-” Peter was looking at him, worry and fear in his big eyes, because his Daddy never cursed like that, never, didn’t want to sound like those people that hurt them, didn’t want to stoop to their level. “I should’ve killed everything, should’ve razed the fucking ground here-!” His breath was coming shaky, and he was scaring himself, and he was scaring Peter, but he didn’t know how to stop it. So he pushed Peter away, shoving himself back against the wall and hiding his face, burying his fingers in his filthy hair and thinking his filthy thoughts, shaking apart from the inside out. He should’ve killed everything, should’ve burned the ground he walked on. Should’ve been less of a coward, taken it all. Peter would be better. He would’ve gone to Heaven, found a better father up there.

Not a sinner like him.

“No!”

Peter was shouting, and he flinched, flinching harder when tiny fists came down on his arm and shoulder, beating at him, pain and anger and fear in them. “No, Daddy, you’re _wrong_ _._ You’re wrong because now Natasha and everyone else is here for us like you said they’d be! We’re going to go back to Pappi’s house and never have to hurt ever again, like you promised! Daddy, you _promised_ _!”_ Tony bit his lip, shaking harder, like he was about to come apart at the seams, exhausted and not even sure what he was feeling anymore. Not even sure if he could feel anymore.

“Peter,” he whispered finally, his voice cracking, not even sure if it was really coming out or if anything was really real anymore, “your daddy did bad things. D-Daddy might not be able to go with you to Pappi’s house.”

“No.” He flinched again. He wasn’t sure when Peter learned that word, wasn’t sure when he’d picked it up, but his breath caught every time he said it, conditioning beaten into him, and he just wanted to bundle Peter up and keep him safe from the world forever. But he couldn’t. He hadn’t. He didn’t deserve the little light, anymore.

“Tony, I told you we weren’t arresting you.” His head jerked up, and he took in Natasha’s disheveled appearance, the hand-shaped bruise starting to purple around her throat, and for the first time in a long time he was _terrified_ of himself.

“I-” he choked on his own words, not able to meet any of their eyes, staring at the irises blooming on her neck like a morbid funeral necklace, broken capillaries that bled before his eyes. “I, I- I-”

Peter looked immensely guilty, and Steve and Natasha glanced at each other. The little boy stepped away from his father, going over to Natasha and burying his face in her thigh, sniffling. “I didn’t mean to get Daddy stuck. I’m sorry.”

“Get him stuck?” Steve asked gently, kneeling, as Tony continued to stammer to himself, his eyes unseeing.

“Sometimes Daddy gets stuck, like a song on repeat in your head. I didn’t mean to get him stuck.”

“How long does it take him to get unstuck?” Peter shrugged.

“Depends,” he muttered, and his tiny form began to shake.

“Does he hurt you when he’s stuck?”

“No!” Peter shouted, jumping back and looking like he was about to punch Steve in the eye for even suggesting that. “Daddy never hurts me! _Never!_ _”_ He was screaming, and Tony’s eyes snapped to him.

“Peter? Baby boy? What’s wrong, what happened sweetheart?” He held his arms out, and Peter ran into them, burying his face in his father’s chest. Tony breathed him in, squeezing his eyes shut. “That’s it baby. What happened? What’s wrong?”

“I wanna leave already, Daddy.” His voice was muffled, and Tony’s face became visibly panicked, but his body stayed loose. Natasha and Steve glanced at each other again.

“I know, Petey. These- These nice people have some things they have to take care of, before we can leave, but don’t you worry baby boy. We’ll be out of here soon.” His voice was vehement, and his eyes burned with fire. Even if the rest of him didn’t respond the same way, even if he was broken in a way that couldn’t ever be fixed, the rebellion in him had never died. The need to protect Peter was simply stronger. He looked up at them, and the fire was small, so small, just a spark now, but it was there. “Are you taking the blueprints?” Natasha and Steve glanced at each other.

“Our only job was to retrieve him,” she muttered, and he considered before pulling the walkie-talkie from his belt.

“Burn any blueprints you find.” Tony blinked, and for the first time they saw him smile. It was weak, and small, but determined.

“I like you,” he said, and Steve smiled back.

“Glad to hear it, Mr. Stark.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Home.   
> That was such a foreign concept to Tony now. Peter had never known home, not that he could remember anyway; home for the past three years had been a four-by-six box with a bed that was too small and a bucket, and food that was too scarce and darkness followed by too much light, and yelling and pain and fires, and the deep bone-ache of working too hard, and drop-dead exhaustion and trying to sabotage as many weapons as he could -- and Peter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a fucking tear jerker buckle up buttercup

“Rhodes?” Tony choked out, staring up in shock from his position against the wall. 

“Whodes?” Peter echoed around dirty fingers, a self-soothing comfort that Tony had never felt the need to force him out of in here. “Unca Whodey?” 

“Yeah,” Rhodey said as he knelt down in front of them, eyes suspiciously wet and smile too wide, his voice coming out as more of a sob than something solid. “That’s me, Petey-pie. You don’t remember me, do you kiddo?” Peter shook his head shyly. Tony was speechless. 

“No,” Peter said quietly as he took his fingers out of his mouth, studying the man. “But Daddy talks about you. He said you were going to rescue us and then you would spoil me rotten.” 

“He was right,” Rhodey chuckled, and dashed away a tear that fell down his face. “He was absolutely right, baby-boy, you’re never going to want for anything now that I’m around.” 

“Not even food or a blanket?” Rhodey bit his lip, anger burning in his eyes and sorrow marring his face. 

“Especially not those, sweetheart.” 

“You’re here,” Tony sobbed, and suddenly he was in Rhodey’s arms, Peter squished between their chests, tears pouring down his face. It seemed after years of suppression, he had too many tears to give. “You’re alive, oh God, you’re here, it’s real.” 

“Of course I’m here, Tones,” Rhodes said quietly into his hair, breathing him in, the sweat and the filth and the fact that he was alive. “I’ve never stopped looking.” 

“I tried!” Tony cried, his eyes screwed shut, pressed tight against Rhodey’s shoulder. “I t-tried to leave clues, I h-hoped someone would see them-!” 

“I did. I saw them, Tony, you did  _ so _ well, kid, so well, you were so smart. You survived, and I’m here and nothing is ever going to happen to you or Peter again. I’ll never, ever stop looking for you.” Tony cried for a few more minutes until Peter started whimpering, and then he pulled back, tear tracks cutting through the months of grime on his face. 

“Howard?” he asked, nothing more than a whisper, terrified of the answer. The look on Rhodey’s face was enough, and he felt what was left of his heart shattering. “N-No-” 

“Tony, I’m so sorry...” 

“No,” he sobbed, clutching Peter to him and rocking back and forth, desperate, broken sobs breaking free from his chest. Three years of fighting and he had still lost almost everything. “No! Daddy, Daddy no, Daddy please!” 

“P-Pappi’s gone?” Peter whispered, looking to Rhodey for confirmation, because Tony’s baby boy was too clever not to know why he was crying for his daddy, had known too much pain and sorrow already to not assume it. “We’re... We’re not going back to Pappi’s house? I won’t meet my Pappi?” 

“I’m so sorry, Petey-pie,” Rhodey whispered, as loud as he could make himself speak without his voice cracking. “I bet you don’t remember the night you and your daddy were taken here, but your Pappi gave his life trying to protect you and daddy. He loved you both very, very much, and he would’ve wanted you to know that.” 

Tony was only twenty-four and still needed his father, and now he wasn’t there and never would be, and he didn’t know what to do about it. Desperate cries were forced out of him, punched from his lungs in huge, wracking trembles as he wished the nightmare of the last three years would be over. Peter was crying too, silently, a sorrow for someone he had never known and now never would, someone he had grown to love through stories. Someone he should’ve had years with. 

“P-Pappi loved us, D-Daddy,” he sobbed, sniffling as snot started to drip from his nose, burying his face in Tony’s chest. “You s-said.” 

“He does, Peter,” Tony choked out. “He l-loves us so much, he g-gave his life for us b-because he loves us. He- H-He-” Rhodey pulled them back in, rocking them gently and shushing them. 

“He w-wanted us to get away from the crash and the loud noises because he loves us,” Peter whispered, his voice small and broken, and Tony hated it, hated everything. Rhodey’s face went pale grey, but Tony had known. Peter had never forgotten, and probably never would, and Tony hated himself for that, hated that he couldn’t soothe the nightmares and ease the fears of his boy. 

“Yes,” he whispered back, pressing his face into Peter’s hair. 

“C’mon Tones,” Rhodey said softly, and after three years he was still the same caring man that Tony loved so much, still his best friend, still always looking out for him. “Let’s get out of here. Let’s go back home.” 

_ Home _ . 

That was such a foreign concept to Tony now. Peter had never known home, not that he could remember anyway; home for the past three years had been a four-by-six box with a bed that was too small and a bucket, and food that was too scarce and darkness followed by too much light, and yelling and pain and fires, and the deep bone-ache of working too hard, and drop-dead exhaustion and trying to sabotage as many weapons as he could -- and Peter. Anywhere Peter was would be Tony’s home, and Tony would do anything to make wherever Peter was home, and he had done the best he could. 

What even was home anymore? A house that had been too big when his father was still alive, and would be much too big now that he was dead, with a room full of toys and baby books and a mobile that he and Howard had made together one evening when Tony couldn’t stop crying with memories even as he was looking forward to the future that had gathered dust, and a kitchen that would never fill with Howard’s complaints about the board as he cooked dinner and Tony made faces at a giggling baby again, and two bedrooms full of books and tools and clothes that were strewn all over the floor because Tony was too much like his father and beds that were probably still unmade because they never did clean up after themselves and wouldn’t make the servants do it that would be full of too many ghosts and far too many tears. 

How could he even make a home when the entire paradigm had shifted and left him behind, and Peter with him? 

“I can’t,” he said instead of voicing his thoughts, shrinking back when Rhodey’s face fell. He held up his caged hand, and Peter ran his fingers sadly over the metal skeleton, as he always did when he looked at his daddy’s hands too long. “I can’t leave the room. Not without someone removing this. The only way to take it off is with the key.” 

“Look for a key on the bodies of the leaders,” Steve muttered into his radio, and Tony jumped, almost having forgotten he and Natasha were still there. Steve looked at him apologetically. “We’ll get you out of here, Mr. Stark.” 

“Tony,” he answered numbly, and Rhodey wrapped an arm around his shoulders, rubbing his arm. “Mr. Stark is... was, my father.” Steve dipped his head. 

“Of course, Tony,” he said softly out of deference and respect, and while Tony appreciated it he didn’t know if he deserved it. “You had a lot of people looking for you and Peter, Tony, a lot of people who care about you. Miss Potts will be waiting when we get back.” Tony smiled, watery but genuine. 

“Oh, Pepper,” he breathed. 

“Auntie Peppa?!” Peter gasped. “I get to meet Auntie Peppa?” 

“You sure do, little man.” He laughed a little imagining the reaming out he would get from the redhead when he got home -- and maybe that’s what home was. Somewhere where you weren’t afraid, where someone would chew you out when you did things wrong and love you when you did things right, unconditionally. “I bet she’s running our company into the ground,” he teased, and Peter giggled. 

“Noooo,” he said. “Auntie Peppa is the smartest person Daddy knows!” 

“That’s right, Petey-pie.” And he knew Howard had written her into his will, because Tony had said he didn’t want to be CEO, didn’t like doing that sort of thing, and Howard had respected that, and said “I knew you didn’t want to, son, that’s why I gave you Pepper. If she can handle you, she can definitely handle the Board.” 

“She’s going to absolutely adore you,” he continued, pressing his lips to Peter’s cheek and blowing a raspberry that made him squeal in delight. “She’s going to spoil you even worse than Uncle Rhodey is going to.” 

“Spoil me rotten!” 

“Completely rotten.” 


End file.
